


Spades

by DeducingAngel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Moriarty/Original female Character - Freeform, POV Jim Moriarty, POV Multiple, POV Third Person, POV Third Person Omniscient, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Sherlock - Freeform, Smut, john/mary - Freeform, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-21 22:00:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8261869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeducingAngel/pseuds/DeducingAngel
Summary: Angel Sinder used to go by many names. One being Christina Jackie Jackson. She used to be the best, the absolute best assassin the W.A.P., that is until she went after the most dangerous man in London, possibly the world. But enough about the past. Now, she's just like everyone else; she works at a small cafe called 'Notes', she was a bridesmaid for her best friend's wedding, and even is working on buying her first car. That is, until the past came a-knocking. Now, she's on the run. And nothing is stopping this man from killing her, and everyone she cares about... But why hasn't he?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Just a small prolougue to start us off.

"Project Spider will be of the utmost importance until further instructed, Ms. Sinder. Do _NOT_ let us down." His face was hidden by the shadows as if they were a mask, and his voice was sharper than a blade, but had more bite to it than a shark. Angel looked closely at the thin file, hoping to learn some important information to help her on this case.

 **Name;** James Moriarty **Age;** 26 **DOB;**  Unknown **Current Residence;** Unknown **Familial Connections;**  None

 

 _**Additional Information;** _ **Appearance;** Wears Westwood suits, black hair, dark eyes, Irish accent, five foot-eight inches tall **Aliases; '** Spider'

 

 **Etc;**  Works with his sniper, Sebastian Moran, aka 'Tiger'. Owns club Alpha, makes weekly visits every Friday. Sits in VIP section, but often leaves to 'accompany' women who're alone.

 

 

That was the entire file. Nothing more. But how did knowing he wears Westwood, his alias is 'spider', and he has a right-hand named Moran help with the case? She'd figure it out; she always did. Westwood; likes high-end. That could be useful, maybe... Get close to the sniper and she could get closer to Moriarty. Club Alpha on Fridays, that's how she would meet him... She figured between the suit and the accent she'd know him when she saw him. Though, she had to admit it would be nice to have a job with someone around her age. Usually her targets were in their thirties, going on forties. And that was just what they claimed. She honestly found the case file a tad odd, there was typically a list of their crimes, the people they've harmed, the countries they've taken or planned to take down. This file had no such information on her target. Not that she cared or anything, she just had an overwhelming sense of curiosity. Screw 'curiosity killed the cat', it also created firearms! She moped in the fact that doing any independent research could get her caught, or worse yet, fired. The only thing she could do is wait and see...


	2. Love, JM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's found her, about six years later, and is readying his game. Watching her from afar, he'll wait for the perfect time to ruin her 'ordinary' life.
> 
> Angel's terrified when a message comes from the one man who knows who she is. The only target she never could beat. She seeks help from an old friend.

**~Moriarty's POV~**

I was just walking into Notes. I didn't expect such a lovely present, but I did get one. Boredom has reigned supreme since I faked my death along with Sherlock, and I really didn't feel like just starting up another game with him. Too boring. As much as I hated to admit it, my mind definitely began to drift back to Angel Sinder. She was an amazing game a few years back, but hey, she was good at her job. I know what I said to Sherlock, the whole 'You've come the closest' bs. No. That title belongs to Jackson, or Sinder, or whatever. Not like I care about her name. If I'm being honest (only partially, of course), she had me in the palm of her hand. She played me, fully and completely. I have many talents in making people dance, forcing people to bend to my whims, but she... She manipulated me in ways I could never admit aloud. She managed to get into my network, my life, and above all; my head. It was pure, dumb luck I survived. They needed her halfway across the world for some random assignment, otherwise I was a dead man. That's why she's got to go. I'm ready this time, and she will pay for what she did to me. Because now I'm the spider. She's in my web now, and she'll be stuck this time. That's for sure. 

 

 I sat calmly in the far corner of the cafe, simply watching her. She obviously still had her prior skills, her body was still lean, and if I'd have had to guess, I'd say she still had the same abdominal strength she did previously. Her golden hair still had the messy waves that always seemed to haunt me, though it was secured tightly behind her head. Her skin wasn't pale, per say, but rather had a tan tint to it. Her eyes were currently a gorgeous celeste shade with golden undertones. Of course, that'd change by tomorrow. They never stayed the same colour for long. Mind you, when I say gorgeous, I mean it in a completely distanced way. I do not care for her in any respect, I do not find her attractive in the least bit. As her name applies, she's an angel. Perfect goody-goody, and I detest her for that. I observed her every motion. Turns out I was right about her skills, given that she managed to catch a fallen cup from hitting the ground using her foot to stop it's decent, and a cup flying through the air in her left hand, despite being right handed. Yes, I threw a cup, problem? Anyways, I watched until her shift ended. Now, the brown splotched apron had been lifted carefully onto the hook, and her hair torn from its confinement. It fell onto her shoulders with a flying grace, and she ran her fingers quickly through her bangs, pulling them back a bit. My eyes quickly made a scan of her as she stepped out from the counter that had previously blocked my view. Damn. She always did have the uncanny ability to draw every man's eyes to her in seconds. Her shirt was tight around her frame, and her night-black skinny jeans almost seemed as if they had been painted on. As the bell rang I lifted myself from my place, ready to follow her. Then I got a better idea. I scrolled through my phone's contacts quickly, landing on 'T'. I hit the one I wanted. Of course, he immediately picked up.

 

 

 

 

  
"Yeah, Boss?" I smirked as I watched Angel turn into the third door down from notes.

 

"Found an old friend. She's living in a flat, it's the third building to the right from Notes. Set up surveillance." No need for me to fall back into old habits. I hung up, and turned away. Time to find that number.

 

 

**~Third Person POV on Angel, 1 week later~**

It was a day like every other. Angel calmly wiped up the spilled coffee from some kid who threw a tantrum, and instead of attempting to clean their child's mess and be decent human beings; his parents took him and left. She was working her shift at Notes, taking orders,cleaning tables, a few more audacious men casually flirting with her. Nothing too unusual. She checked her phone, seeing how much longer until her shift ended. To her surprise, she only had three minutes left. She put up her apron, dusted off her clothes, and washed her hands before the sweet release of clocking out. It was actually a pretty nice day, but to Angel, the clouds couldn't be any darker. She pulled out her phone to review the message she got at lunch.  
  
**From Blocked;**  
                                                                                Did you really think you could escape, 'Jackson'?  
                                                                                                                                     ~JM  
  
Dizziness took over her, and the world seemed to be spinning out of control as she headed to Mary's. She stumbled down the streets, some believed her to be drunk and tried to help her. She always rejected their assistance, until the dark haired man she couldn't see quite clearly (could barely understand him, but he sounded Irish) offered to get her a cab. She gladly accepted, and pretty much collapsed into the cab. She recited the Watson's residence, and waited patiently, staring out the window absentmindedly. Her head had cleared up a bit, and her sense of panic had ceased.

  
"Doing better, Ms?" She recognized that voice. That Irish accent, not quite as thick as she remembered, but it was unmistakable. She snapped her head to the Cabby, and saw that blond hair that always looked like he just got done 'pleasuring' a woman. Sebastian Moran. She turned toward the door, struggling with the handle for a bit, kicking and pushing, but to no avail. She turned back to the sniper.

"So he's back, huh?" Angel attempted to keep her voice confident and steady, but it ended up cracking and wavering. Sebastian chuckled, adjusting his mirror to see her.

"Oh, sweetness, he never left. Know what's even better? He's ready for revenge. On you." The car was nearly to Mary's street, and she quickly looked for an escape. She noticed a small pen, and lunged for it. Sebastian closed the window so she couldn't stab him... Idiot. Angel twisted the end of the pen until it was nearly loose, making sure the spring would be tighter than usual, before aiming it for the window, and firing it. Completely shattering the window. Sebastian snapped his head back in shock, as she leapt from the window, rolled over a car, and in front of Mary's flat. She was a little scraped up, but Sebastian didn't have the choice to stop and chase her, he had to keep moving unless he wanted to get hit himself. He knew well he couldn't fight her, and he wouldn't dare try. She ran up the stairs to Mary and John's flat. She didn't know John very well, but if it hadn't been for Angel, Mary would be dead right now, not preparing to raise a child. Her erratic, pounding knocks threw the unsuspecting couple off guard. It seemed like decades before John finally swung the door open, but Angel immediately shoved him in the flat, her falling in with him, but kicking the door shut behind her.

"Angel?! What the bloody hell?!" John exclaimed as his back hit his hard wood floors.

  
"Sorry, John. I didn't know if he'd follow me or not, so I forced you to duck. Where's Mary?" She pushed herself up, and brushed herself off.

"In... Our... Room... Who, may I ask?" Poor, stupid John. She rushed to talk to Mary, gripping the sides of the door frame as she panted in the doorway, using it for support.

"Angel? What's wrong?" Mary immediately acknowledged her presence, standing up to talk to her, and held one hand lightly to her arm as if not to disturb a rabid animal.

"It's him. It's him, Mary!" She cried out, reality hitting her like a truck. Her face was painted with fear, her eyes currently a sweet sky blue colour gleaming with cowardice Mary had never seen in her friend's eyes. It was impossible, though, or so Mary thought. Angel too, for that matter, until today.

"That's impossible! He's dead, Angel! DEAD!" Angel shook her head so fast, Mary thought it was bound to fall off her shoulders. Angel began shaking like an earthquake, and her eyes glinted with a feeling Mary didn't even know she had.

"No. He isn't. And I'm going to be soon." John finally made it to the doorway of his room, curiously flooding over him, taking control of his actions. She pulled her phone out agonizingly slow for the Watsons, but it was only due to her never wanting to see the message again. She pulled up the message, looking at it like the death omen it was, before turning the screen for Mary to see.

"M-Maybe it's not him... Maybe it's someone using his name to get to you..." She tried, but not even she believed the words that came from her lips. Angel, for the first time ever, broke down. She was always so emotionless, she didn't laugh or smile, so it was easy to avoid making attachments. It had even been that way since her and Jane's mother died when they were 16. They had gone to Germany (where her mother and father were wed) for the funeral, burying them next to their grandmother, and aunt.

  
"Mary. He's coming for me. He wants me dead, I know it!" Angel forced her voice to remain calm as Mary's hand clasped over her mouth in horror as another message came in. Angel pulled the phone from Mary's hand and read it aloud.

"Remember telling me you were going to burn me, sweetheart? Well, I used your line. Oh, well! I owe you, Angel. I owe you. JM." She returned to her stoic features, reading the message in a monotone manner. John gasped alerting the two women to his presence. They snapped their heads to John, and he quickly moved to where they could see, pretending he hadn't been eavesdropping.

  
"John, how long have you been there?" Mary asked warily. He was about to answer, his hand rubbing the back of his neck.

"He's been there for about six and a half minutes, Mary. It's fine. Though, I think it'd be best if I cut contact, though I should contact Jane first." John looked at her as if she had just performed a magic trick, but it really was her superior observation skills that had told her what she needed to know. Mary stared at the woman whose name fit her perfectly. Her light blond hair cascaded in beautiful, yet careless waves down her shoulders, but her eyes had a tendency to change colours. Today they were a ravishing sky blue, but with the dark shade pulled in front of them they now seemed closer to navy.

"We are not cutting contact! That's what he wants! No, we're sticking together!" Mary stated matter-of-factly. Knowing not to push Mary, Angel simply nodded her head. She looked back at the message. To the part she hadn't read. It had to have been a clue, a code of sorts. How he loved his games. 'Love, JM.' What could that single word mean? 'Love, JM. Love, JM.' Nothing was coming to her. It began flying across her head repeatedly, and she could no longer control her thoughts, 'LOVEJMLOVEJMLOVEJMLOVEJMLOVEJMLOVEJMLOVEJMLOVEJMLOVEJMLOVEJMLOVE-'

"Who is it? What's going on here?" John finally gathered the nerve to ask. He knew Mary had been an assassin, but it was ridiculous for him to believe the petit, barely-over-40-kilos could've been one as well.

"Nothing you need to be involved in." Angel quipped.


	3. More Than You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel and Sherlock are introduced for the first time, and Moriarty begins to send his plan into motion. But what reasons does he have for killing a man she only met last week?

**~Moriarty’s POV, after she escapes Moran~**

She should've been _Mine_ ! Of course, by 'mine', I mean I should own her right now- She should be in the palm of my hand. Stuck in the cab with Sebastian. I managed to drug her. I managed to make sure she ran into me, and that I was the one she allowed to help her. Everything had gone PERFECTLY! All that idiot had to do was keep her in the cab. A pen-a damn pen left in the back seat- that's how she escaped! I know she's intelligent, but a pen?! A second to think about it as I picked up the coffee off the counter of the kitchen. I had to distance myself from her a bit, it's a long story. I shouldn't be surprised, she is very talented. _Wonder what else she could do with a pen..._ Even though it was only a thought in my head, I went visibly stiff. No, that's not what I meant, obviously. She just has a lot of talents... Probably knows over a thousand ways to escape with everyday objects... Like... _Pens..._ Stop. Just stop. I should've expected it, though. Should've known she would escape. Should've worked through the plan more thoroughly. Had a backup plan... Now there's an idea! She's currently at John and Mary's. Not much there. Unless... I entered my office, a visible smirk tugging at my lips. Case for Sherlock, he goes to get John, Angel joins them on their little casey-wasey, and I get to start the process of burning her slowly. Just have to chose the best, closest victim to her. _Should take out that lover of hers._ That would definitely do. Admittedly, I hated the guy. Don't know quite why, just do. Besides, what's a woman as intelligent, determined, confident... Gorgeous... Extraordinarly... Stop. Just-Stop. As I was saying, what was a woman like, well, _her,_ doing with a no-brain, cocky, perverted, scum-bag, excruciatingly dull bloke like- Bloody hell! I didn't realize that my grip on my cup had been tightening, to the point where it broke, splashing the boiling liquid everywhere. _Focus, Jim!_ Yes. Focus. I didn't have long to plan how it'd be executed, what clues to lay, or to have some idiot end the miserable tale of that man-What was his name? Seeley?-'s life. No time like the present, right?

 

**~Third person, after she escapes Moran~**

There was yet another knock on the door. John didn't think twice before making moves to open it, but Angel quickly grabbed his arm, stopping him in place. John gingerly turned to look at her stoic features, warning him of what could happen. He had no clue what was going on, but he knew it wasn't good.

"Where's your gun?" Angel asked in a hushed and hurried tone. Her cautious behavior sent chills through John, and instead of asking why, he simply handed her the glock. She held the gun steadily in her left hand as she moved to open the door. She snuck a peek through the peephole, but she didn't get much information from her glance. Tall, curly mocha hair, pale skin, weird cambridge crystalline eyes, with little sparks of teal and shone with a glint of intelligence. She swung the door open, training the weapon on the mystery man.

"Who are you, and why are you here?" She spoke calmly and swiftly, and took note the man didn't seem fazed by the gun in his face.

"Sherlock Holmes, and I'm here for John. I need help on a case." She lowered the gun, but still being on alert. She stepped to the side and threw her head to tell him to come in. He strode in without a care, but she checked the area around the door before closing and locking it.

"JAWN! WE'VE GOT A CASE!" Sherlock shouted, not really caring Angel was waiting for an excuse to shoot him. John clomped down the steps, Mary trailing closely behind. Mary looked between the two. She had suggested getting Sherlock and Mycroft's help when it was evident a hit had been placed on her. Angel had killed four assassins since 5 pm Sunday. It was Tuesday.  
"Sherlock, this is my friend Angel. Angel, this is Sherlock Holmes, he's a detective." Angel nodded, taking note of everything she could. Right handed, low moral compass, and close ties to the British government. Possibly a family member high up in said government. She knew of Sherlock, and she often spoke lowly of him. John presumed this was due to her own talents of 'deducing' being ignored by Mary and His constant speaking of Sherlock's, with no evidence. So, he prompted to speak highly as ever of his friend.

"And the man who tricked Moriarty into killing himself." John added, proud of his friend's accomplishment. Sherlock looked away, acting as if it weren't a big deal, but his confident smirk proved otherwise. Angel was sick of people assuming Moriarty was dead, and spoke against John. Not even caring. Actually, she thought that maybe, just maybe, Sherlock could help her actually stop Moriarty once and for all.

"Moriarty isn't dead." Angel spat, rolling her eyes. Sherlock and John's eyes snapped to her, and Mary shook her head lightly. Angel wasn't a fan of those whose head was too big for their body, meaning she hated cocky people.

"Of course he's dead. Don't tell me you believed that little broadcast!" Sherlock stated in spite. Angel couldn't help another eye roll. Of course Sherlock would assume he's dead. It's in his own best interest. If Moriarty's dead; Sherlock won, he's the best. If not, Moriarty won, and a new game was beginning. An east wind was coming.

"I'm not stupid, but I know he isn't dead. Want proof?" She held the message in front of him, who visibly paled. His eyes seemed to focus on one word. One word that didn't make sense to either of them. Theories began playing in his head about what the word was a clue or challenge for. Perhaps she was an ex-lover, or perhaps she was supposed to meet him somewhere to do with romance. Either way, the pieces didn't fit.

"Don't ask me what he meant; I haven't a clue." Angel answered before he asked. Her phone buzzed with another message, and she turned the phone back towards herself.  
  
**From Blocked;**  
**Can't wait to see you again... Perhaps you should join ol' Sherly on this little case of his!**  
**~JM**  
  
"He said I should join you." She tossed Sherlock the phone, and he reviewed the message. What reason did Moriarty have for her? She was ordinary, like everyone else. She was obviously a barista, presumably at either Speedy's or Notes. She had no pets, and Mary was likely her only friend. There should be no reason for him to run Angel 'Jackson' along.

"Well then, we shan't disappoint him. Right, Ms. Jackson?" Sherlock stated, already dragging John out the door. John slapped Sherlock’s rudeness. He had spoken to Sherlock about Angel many times; the least he could do was remember her name!

"Ms. Jackson? Her name is Angel Sinder, Sherlock!" Sherlock froze and both her and Mary face palmed. Sherlock spun around, eyes narrowing on the woman. He started narrowing down the possibilities of who she was to Moriarty, and a fake name definitely played into his belief that she was a lover of his. One who likely betrayed Moriarty. He couldn't be farther from the truth. Sure, she had a thing for the criminal. Who wouldn't? She admired his intelligence, loved how exciting he and all his games were, she lusted for those dark eyes reflecting her emotionless irises, and she definitely couldn't deny her infatuation with him. But she tried to kill him on multiple occasions, and now it was his turn. He was going to burn her, as she promised to him all those years ago. Moriarty had told Sherlock he had come the closest to taking him down, but that was a lie. Angel nearly had done it. She could've beaten him. She just should've pulled the trigger when she had the chance, but she let him go. She couldn't do it. Not that he knew that. She received a message, and jumped on the opportunity to make it seem important. Running off without another word, making it seem as if the text had some meaning. She had spared him. She had failed.

"Who. Are. You?" Sherlock demanded, his baritone voice sounding deeper and sharper with every word. Angel snuck a glance at Mary, before deciding on an answer. It wasn't much, but it'd suffice, for now.

"Someone Moriarty wants dead- even more than you." She pushed past Sherlock, leaving the detective scouring for more clues, but finding absolutely none. After a moment of silence, Sherlock followed her intentively- Nearly leaving John behind...


	4. Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seeley's death comes as a shock to Angel, but not for the reasons Moriarty planned. She helps Sherlock investigate, and it seems the games have just begun. Angel starts getting to know Sherlock a bit better.
> 
> We meet Laney Sinder, Moriarty's current girlfriend. They have a bit of domestic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little Angel Sinder/Sherlock Holmes. This will go on for a few chapters, in the very least.

**~Third Person POV, at the Crime Scene~**

Sherlock strode confidently, his 5' 11" frame allowing him to be much farther ahead than John, as he was used to. Angel, on the other hand, kept up fine. John couldn't help noticing how alike the two were. Cocky, arrogant geniuses, putting themselves in danger for the fun of it. He also noted that the way Angel kept pace with Sherlock, making her seem more an equal than part of the posse. Let’s be honest, with her mind and skill set, equal wasn’t the right word. She should’ve been walking ahead. Sherlock lifted the blue and white tape for his shorter companions. They calmly walked beneath of it, John watching the petite blonde intensely. Lestrade walked towards them, face drowned with worry of why this woman was here.

“Woah, woah, woah. I’m not even supposed to be letting you two in here, who is she?!” He said with an urgency that was undeniable. She continued to walk towards the body, grabbing and putting on the white latex gloves. John and Sherlock stopped to speak with him.

“She’s with me. An acquaintance of mine.” Sherlock explained calmly, of course this wasn’t how John would put it. He didn’t like the fact Moriarty would send you with them. No, he knew this had to be some kind of trap.

“And of Moriarty!” He snapped without a second thought. She spun to face them, but Lestrade and John didn’t seem to notice.

“THEN WHY THE BLOODY HELL IS SHE HERE?!” Lestrade had terror and anger contorting his face into a twisted, angry expression. Now, she was upset. Why did everyone assume she was with Moriarty on this?

“One, I am no acquaintance of Moriarty’s. Actually, we’ve tried to kill each other a multitude of times. Two, the man in the centre of this little area you closed off, his name’s Seeley Hodgins. I went out with him a few days ago, his sister’s a coworker of mine. She set us up. Three, Mr.Holmes, do you see what I see?” Sherlock quickly scanned the body, then the area around them. North, lake, West, green area, South, fire mural, East, flagpoles.

“Well, isn’t this just a romance novel?” He stated with a sly smirk and a bit of sass. She smirked with him, while the two ordinary men in front of them stood in utter confusion, trying to follow the trail of logic the other two had used. They desperately looked at the body and scanned the area, but came up with nothing.

“Isn’t it? Now, I’ll take the mural and flag pole, can you handle the lake and greenspace?” She spoke quickly, reminding John of Sherlock once more. Sherlock hummed in reply before swiftly stalking towards the greenspace as she headed for the flames. She examined it quickly, looking for something that was different, a brick or line that is out of place. That’s when she caught sight of the vibrant phthalo green. It was a single brick, but it almost looked as if it fit perfectly, despite the surrounding area being primarily red. She quickly pulled out a switchblade, inserting it into the space between the bricks, and used it to wedge the brick out. She proceeded to turn it over, finding it was completely hollow... Minus the piece of painted wood and the small folded note. She pocketed both and raced towards the flagpole.

“Oh god! There’s a bomb, Sherlock!” Lestrade yelled out of the blue. You turned to see Sherlock holding a black box, but otherwise he simply shrugged it off. You looked at the flagpole, three boxes sitting beneath it. One black, one as green as the previous brick, and one was a bluebell blue. She scanned the lake, finding the buoys were also each a different colour, one blue, one red, one orange, a yellow, and finally the same green seemed to repeat. So the box she needed was the black one.

“Sherlock, Phthalo green buoy.” Her voice wasn’t practically urgent, but loud enough for him to hear her. She grabbed the black box to match Sherlock’s. Sherlock pulled the clues from the buoy, and both rushed to the body in the centre. Angel dumped the contents of both black boxes onto the ground, and Sherlock dropped the clues from the buoy. Something was wrong here. The wood she previously assumed to be painted... Each box and the buoy had one, and at the breaks the splinters obviously lined up perfectly. Since when were puzzles such a big deal to Moriarty?

“Wait-Wait, what are the painted wood things for?” The stupidity flowed out of John’s mouth, and into Angel’s thought process. There were no brush strokes. Not painted. Instead, there were tiny dots... Black, blonde, pale, tan. She knew what they were.

“Printed wood, John. And they’re to distract us and throw us off balance.” She said, scanning the notes.

 

**_You thought I'd abandon you_ **

**_This how you start a war_ **

 

**_'No trespassing' that's what it said_ **

**_There's no turning back._ **

 

**_Blow pops and meat cleavers_ **

**_Candy hearts and bruises_ **

 

**_This was no accident, this was a therapeutic chain of events_ **

**_The bruises and contusions will remind you what you did when you wake_ **

 

Four notes, and they all had one thing in common.

“I believe you told us you weren’t romantically involved with Jim Moriarty.” Sherlock handed her the picture put together as he snatched up the notes, looking quizzically at them, trying to decipher the code. Of course, there was no code. Angel scanned the picture. No clue how he managed to have this picture, but he was THE Jim Moriarty. Rain fell in frozen motion, them standing at her front door, his jacket acting as the only protection from the raindrops plummeting down as they held it above their heads. She stood in a blood red cocktail dress, his lips connected with hers. His white shirt and skull tie soaked lightly, his black dress slacks perfectly over his expensive leather shoes. Hair matted from the rain as it only partially hid her features. She could see how someone could make the mistake they were romantically involved.

“Oh please, he was romantically involved, I was doing my job.” Despite the harsh words, she set the picture on the ground instead of tossing it aside. A move that didn’t go unnoticed by the great detective. He simply hummed in response once again, and she rolled her eyes at his disbelieving.

“What do these words even mean? They make absolutely no sense!” Sherlock finally burst out. This caused Angel to smile faintly.

“They’re song lyrics. Luckily for you, I know where the bomb is. Come along.” She began towards the main road, Sherlock attempting to catch up, John falling so far behind he had to shout out to her as she stopped to get a taxi.

“WHERE ARE WE GOING, EXACTLY?” He rushed to catch up as the taxi pulled up next to her. By now Sherlock was with her, and she was opening the door.

“The old flat of one, Ms. Christina Jackie Jackson. A-K-A, me.”

 

**~Moriarty's POV, After Seeley's death~**

 

Maybe the photos were too much... Was using my favorite and her favorite colours too easy... Maybe I went a little too far with the boyfriend thing... Why did I chose him, again? Oh yeah, I hated his guts. And the colours were done purposefully, we wanted that part to be easy. Makes sense. Never mind, only worrying about the photos. I probably shouldn’t have done that. They’ll probably assume I _feel_ something for her. As if. Two loud knocks sounded at my gold-plated office door. Sebastian.

“Come in, Moran.” I continued glancing through my files, organizing the jobs into two piles; ‘BORING’, and ‘possibly’. Only one job went into the ‘exciting’ pile, and I was currently working it. Angel Sinder. Sebastian closed the large doors behind him, standing nervously at my desk. What was up with him?  
“Uh, Boss? Laney’s here, and I think you should talk to her...” What doesn’t he get about using Laney? Honestly, if he wasn’t my best friend, I’d have him thrown in a bonfire. Or, um, I’d fire him. Yep. Totally what I meant. Just kidding! I’d literally burn him.

“And why is that, Moran?” I didn’t look up, I continued my organizing. File after file thrown to the side. Ugh. Ordinary people wanting me to solve their ordinary problems. Instead of answering Sebastian... What was that? Did he just gulp? Seriously, what is the issue with people today?  
“I believe I gave you an order, Sebastian.” As if by magic he stood at attention. Ah, the soldier in him. Maybe I should just end every sentence with ‘that’s an order’.

“She seems very pissed off, sir. As your friend and right-hand, I suggest you talk to her.” There we go. Finally. Wait- why’s she pissed?  
“Fine. Send her in.” He nodded, and left. Sort, sort, sort, ooh that could be interesting, sort, hell no-

“JIM! WHAT THE HELL ARE THESE!?” Geez, she really is pissed. I lifted my gaze to see Laney in her usual skinny jeans and low-cut tee. She always worked hard to draw attention to her better assets. She immediately got sent a cold look, followed by my, per usual, sickening smile. It’d stop anyone in their tracks, and it didn’t fail to do that here. _Angel would’ve kept shouting._ STOP! NO ONE CARES ABOUT BLOODY ANGEL SINDER! _Not true._ Shut up. Just shut the hell up, yes it is true. _Sherlock’s probably falling for her right now._ Why should I care? Just gives me another weakness. Stop. Stop. Stop fighting with yourself. It’s idiotic. After failing to formulate a sentence explain what was wrong, she handed me three wood prints. Wait- I gave these to her to place at the crime scene! Where’s the fourth..?

“These... W-What’re they?” Great. She was bloody tearing up. I pretended to be looking through the prints instead of paying attention. The first was at her flat, we were listening to music using her earbuds. If memory serves, she was introducing me to Simon Curtis and Panic at the Disco. Maybe a little Adam Lambert. Not the worst memory of those times. I moved to the next one as I realized I had been staring too long. This one was when I originally came up with how to steal the crown jewels. Technically she gave me the idea... It was her ‘birthday’ (Never found out her real birthdate), and she had a paper crown on, and we were watching some crap telly show, and they were stealing some expensive item and, much like the crown jewels, the glass was unbreakable. Angel corrected that they couldn’t just scratch the glass weaker- they’d need one point of complete force. See? Told you that’s where the idea came from. Next photo... Oh. _That_ ’s why she’s so upset. It was an _intimate_ one. Okay, maybe I should’ve found a different one.

“I believe I told you to put these at the crime scene. Where’s the fourth?” I set them aside, folding my hands on my desk, leaning slightly forward. This should be interesting. Maybe she put it on the body, that’d work as well.

“I split it in four, and hid each piece like I was supposed to for each photo...” _SHE DID WHAT!!?_ Why did this piss me off so bad? Ah, who cares. SHE DID WHAT!?

“You. Did. What?” Sharp as knives, and with the way she cringed at each word, they were definitely stabbing her. Good.

“I-I’m sorry, Jim! I-I just don’t understand why you need such things... You’re trying to kill her! Besides, you have me!” SHe seemed desperate. Time to decide. Let my anger out, that I have no idea why I have so much suddenly, or use this to my advantage... Huff.

“It’s fine, darling,” Internally cringing, “I could never stay mad at you. Next time, just ask. I was using them as a distraction, but I’ll figure something out.” I need to puke. Yet, she seemed on cloud nine. This better be worth it.


	5. Flashback

**~Moriarty’s POV, Later that evening~**

I just laid there, unmoving, planning, uncaring. Laney refused to go home, and I thoroughly regret what I did. Now she wants to ‘cuddle’ and ‘spoon’. She has buried herself into my side. She’s like a pest, and I just want her out of my hair. I just had to attempt to keep my mind off her nails digging under my shirt and into my skin, leaving small crescents on my pale chest. What was with women and nails? I just needed a distraction, any distraction. Could always comb through my memories of ‘Christina’/ Ms. Sinder. Could help me get a leg up. Plus, then I could mentally escape this nightmare.

**~Flashback to their first meeting. 3rd person POV~**

He had watched her through the evening, and a few fridays before. He knew her pattern. The ever odd occurrence was that, despite never meeting anyone she showed interest in, she always came back. Security cameras confirmed she came back on Fridays, Saturdays, and even a tuesday once or twice. What he couldn’t figure out was why. But tonight he decided he had gathered the information he needed, he was ready to try his hand at getting her attention. He sat confidently down next to her, immediately ordering his usual. Scotch on the rocks. She scanned him quickly, so far she was unimpressed.

“Who are you, if I may?” She said in a polite manner, but disgusted tone. At first he felt ready for everything she had to throw his way, but actually coming to speak with her now, he felt ill-prepared. He scanned her once more, picking up any little details he could. Dress was clearly an Alexander McQueen Original. Definitely expensive, so obviously she had money. Couldn’t just flash his rolex and westwood. No, he’d have to try much harder than that. Though, he already knew that, he saw her wardrobe; Alexander McQueen, even some dresses from the Vivienne Westwood collection, which he personally favored. Tonight she wore a simple black military wrap dress, but it had that subtle ‘look at me’ feel to it, much like many of his suits. She knew how to dress, in the very least. It took him but a fraction of a second to analyze the situation, then make the best move he could.

"Jim Moriarty, and you are?" He happily held out his hand for a casual introduction, and 'Christina' looked between him and it for a short while before smiling smalley. Now, there had been some smooth targets, even some cute ones, but she was not expecting this handsome Irish-man to be her target. She had seen him casually flirt, and seduce, many women at the club, and she found it extremely odd that he never used the same tactics. Each one was different. Unique.

"Christina Jackson." She placed her hand in his, and he gripped it tightly before placing a small kiss to the back of it. He winked at her as he pulled his lips away. She saw him in action many times, yes, Jim Moriarty was quite the flirt, but this was NOT what she was expecting. Her cheeks appeared as if she'd recently been slapped, but otherwise she didn't react at all.

"Lovely name for a lovely woman." He purred as he let their hands fall away from him and to the hard wood surface, but he refused to let go. Jim lifted his glass of scotch, keeping his eyes locked on hers as he lifted it to his lips. She couldn't help but think of how attractive that was. He knew how to play his cards, and that just made her job all the harder. He read the situation, and knew exactly what to say. She had to turn these tides, and soon. Her blond hair was in a sleek, tight ponytail, save for a few loose strands hung in loose ringlets that appeared gold in the dim light. His black Westwood and slicked back hair added to the sharp appearance and overall distinguished look of his pale skin, dark eyes, and clean shaven face. The original draw to her had been her look. She appeared dark, mysterious even, and the dirty looks she gave each man who attempted to pick her up before kicking their chair out from underneath them. He always did love a challenge. He was doing good, so far, and he found himself oddly drawn to the woman at the classy bar.

“Says every third man who sits at that seat.” she challenged, and he gave a long thought on it before nodding in agreement. Not what he had expected. No, that’s not what should’ve happened at all... She was good.

“Yeah, I can see that. So, how about you let me find something else to compliment before sending me to the ground, eh?” She exhaled sharply, but not in the annoyed or exasperated way she normally would. No, this man was actually charming. She did have to make him fall for her, after all.

“Fine, but if you’re still failing in the next ten minutes, I’m pouring your drink down after you.” He laughed a bit, before taking a deep breath, looking her directly in her eyes, absorbing the warm fluorescent speckles of mahogany and yellow sparks sprinkled in the almost unnerving green colour. He could’ve sworn they had been chocolate brown the last time he caught a glimpse.

“Deal.”

**~Move to next Friday~**

Tonight he was looking for her, and she couldn’t deny she was almost excited to see him again. He had ended up on the floor, drink poured over him, but he didn’t really mind. He just needed to try harder tonight. Now, usually he’d cut his losses and move on, but there was something different about her. As if she had a lure to attract him to her. A siren’s song. He waited just off to the side of where she usually sat, determined to be the first man to speak to her this evening. And the only, if he could help it. As if on cue, she entered the glamorous place, her hair was in loose, natural waves, as the next song began. He even recognized the dress. As he guessed, she wore an Alexander McQueen, again, this time it was a Tuxedo Lapel dress. It was slightly opposing of what she wore last week, though not completely on the opposite spectrum. Black suited her well, but the sparkling clean chain drew attention, as well as the original dress’ lapels. She stood out completely, not subtly there. Yet, she still seemed humble. She was a puzzle, that’s for sure. She ordered her drink, dabbing her red lipstick on the napkin as a lady should to prevent staining the cup. He brought his usual with him as he retook the same seat as last week. She narrowed her eyes at him, as if questioning what he was doing, but this was the expected outcome.

“Didn’t you get the message last time?” She spat, but he simply looked into his glass, circling the liquid around the cup slowly. A smirk tugging its way onto his lips. Yeah, he did. He just didn’t care.

“Oh, I did.” He replied, lifting his gaze to the rows of bottles containing liquids of varying colours. That was interesting... She couldn’t help feel he was a lot like her. Bored, genius, and knew all the right moves. An equal match... This would be a lot more fun if he knew who she was.

“Then why’re you here?” She copied his action, moving her eyes to examine the array of alcoholic beverages. After a long, but not uncomfortable, silence, she took another sip of the burgundy liquid.

“Oh, darling, admit it. I’m a lot more fun than the other fifty men that’d hit on you.” His hand slid protectively on hers as another tried to come to her opposite side, but soon left as he got glared at from the nearly black eyes.

“Alright, fine. Doesn’t mean anything will happen.” She pulled her hand back, pulling it in front of her, resting it on the bar.

“Never said it did.”

**~A few fridays later~**

“So, if you don’t like this music, what do you listen to? I am ever the curious ‘bastard’.” She chuckled with him a bit at the admittance to the casual ‘nickname’ she’d tagged him with. She thought about it a bit, before shrugging. They actually had become quite close, but neither would admit that in the very least they were dating. Nor would they admit they were falling for each other. No doubt she always slid his chair from under him, but even he knew he didn’t need the challenge anymore. He found her to be a very well-spoken woman, not to mention she always seemed to know exactly what his next move was and how to react.

“You’d think I was a freak.” She quipped. She couldn’t lie. She knew that. What made her so good at her job was the fact that the less she lied about, the more they trusted her. If she got caught in a small lie, like this, then she could kiss her life goodbye. Not that she minded. She just loved the game, playing the bad guy and getting rewarded for it. The word freak hit him, his mind running to Carl Powers. HE was a bastard, not Jim.

“I’d never.” He tried to sound lighthearted, but the sincerity in his voice was unmistakeable. You simply couldn’t miss it. She was slightly taken aback, turned to him to find herself mesmerized by his eyes. She nodded once, sharp, quick, and simple.

“I enjoy a lot. Bach and Simon Curtis, not to mention Pan!c and Phantom of the Opera.” He raised his eyebrows, shock setting in, “See! I told you that you’d think I was crazy!” She accused. He couldn’t help laughing a bit, getting a punch to the arm in return for the playful gesture.

“Not crazy. Unique. I can't heard of half those, but I do think you’d make a wonderful Christine.” A blush set into her cheeks, smiling like an idiot to herself. Neither minded, once again, because they both were. She took another sip, realizing she had finished her drink. She set it down as they both stared at it solemnly.

“Guess it’s time to head home then, huh?” He asked, the usual spirit gone from his voice. She nodded slightly, beginning to get up, then heading for the door. He pulled his wallet out, throwing the cash on the bar. He smirked.

“Hey! Wait up!” She spun around, definitely not expecting that. He caught up to her, tucking his wallet back into his right pocket, smiling at her confusion. It was written all over her features.

“What kind of gentleman would I be if I allowed a lady to walk herself home? Besides, I want to know who Simon Curtis is.” He swooped his arm around her, helping her continue to the door.

**~End of Flashbacks, 3rd Person POV back to Moriarty~**

He smiled despite himself. Just the memories sped his heart up a bit. He couldn’t help it, but it did give him some ideas on what to do next. He wanted this to be as painful for he as it had been for him. He would ruin everything for her, especially the thing she held dearest. Her precious music. Though, it wasn’t only hers anymore... He had grown quite the liking to it, too. He still listened to the songs she showed him, and bought every new album from Adam Lambert, or Set It Off. What could he say? She rubbed off on him. He even went to the safest place in the world to listen to it, just like they used to. After he found out who she was. Before she... Before she held the gun to his head, before she cursed that she wouldn’t be able to kill him as she ran out of the building. After she broke him... The usual spark of hatred set into his tired eyes. The fires competing in a game the pain always won. It had nothing to lose, it just burned.

**~Move to Angel, still 3rd person, at her old flat~**

“So how did you know to come here?” John had to admit that he was starting to accept Angel. If for no other reason than the fact that Sherlock actually seemed to tolerate her, perhaps even like her. Not that he could blame Sherlock, she was beautiful, but he had a feeling it had more to do with her mind. She clearly understood him, and he understood her, as well.

“The only place those songs have anything in common are here. This is where he learned them...” She hesitated for the first time either of them had seen, before striding with more confidence they’d ever seen, kicking the flat’s door down. John looked like a bunny after the thunder, but Sherlock seemed indifferent. It took Sherlock but a moment to respond once she began climbing the steps two at a time up to the flat, him following close behind. John, however, seemed like he was in shock. In the old flat, that was frankly very poorly maintained, there was a bomb in the centre of the room, with a note taped to it. Sherlock ripped off the note, reading it quickly.

“Our song, remember? No? Okay, then a bad song. Can you guess?” He scrunched his nose in the utterly odd language, but it immediately clicked for her.

“What song? You had a song?” She rolled her eyes at his cluelessness. She quickly opened the box, seeing a keypad with only six buttons. It didn’t take too long. The album was the absolute worst.

“No, of course we didn’t. We decided there were too many amazing choices to have just one song, so instead we had an anti-song. Womanizer.” She explained quickly, typing in the corresponding digit to ‘CIRCUS’, meaning ‘247287’. A small click sounded, and a smaller box forced itself from the rest of it. They read the note together.

**I see you remembered our little arrangement.**

**Did you enjoy the memory-walk?**

**I sure did! Too bad you won’t even have those much longer...**

**~JM**

A silence fell over them. Could they win?


	6. Black Widow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Game two, and Sherlock and Angel's relationship seems to have intensified since last week's advenure.
> 
> Very littrle Jim in this chapter, but we do see how he reacts to the progression of Sherlock and Angel's relationship.

**~Third Person POV, at Sherlock's flat~**

They sat on opposite sides of the sofa, stretched out, entangled in each other. Each rocking three nicotine patches. Angel inhaled deeply, loving the feeling of flowing poison through her blood and veins, the feeling of an addiction waiting to happen. Like she could, not only perceive, but see abstract concepts and ideas.

"You were right." She admitted as the curly haired detective smirked, almost proud of his small 'achievement'. John and Mary strolled through the door, both immediately stopping to view the sight. John looked over Sherlock, and viewed his arm. Rolling his eyes.

"So what's the 'three patch-problem', this time? And Angel, since when do you smoke?" His face held a look of distaste as they both just sighed, as if that was the stupidest question in the world. Angel sat up, swinging her legs over, her state being one of euphoria, yet concentration. She seemed determined, and driven. As she stood, Sherlock followed, until they were back in front of Sherlock's collage of clues.

"I don't, but I must admit, Sherlock was right. These things work miracles on one's perceiving abilities." Her hands folded behind her back as she continued to examine the board, Sherlock towering slightly over her, also examining the clues. John and Mary shared a somewhat shocked glance. Mary leaned over to whisper in John's ear. He didn't know what to expect, but what she said definitely wasn't it.

"When this is all over, we need to keep a leash on those two's relationship. Who knows? Maybe you'll get to be a best man, after all." She smiled mischievously as John's eyes widened to a near incomprehensible size. As Mary began giggling, the two geniuses shot her a deathly cold glare.

"We have another case related to Moriarty. Angel has been staying here, since it would seem her flat burnt down due to someone leaving a gas oven on. Interesting, isn't it?" Now both Watsons were surprised. One, Moriarty burnt Angel's flat down and she didn't tell them? Two, Sherlock was letting Angel stay here!? It was an odd feeling of fear that Moriarty could kill any of them at any time, and almost pride that Sherlock was getting along with a member of the female species. Hell, if they didn't know better, they'd say they were seeing the first stages of love. Or the closest either of them could get. Good thing John knew better. Too bad he was still poor, stupid John.

"Keep that up, and we might just start planning you two's wedding!" Part of it was a joke, the other part of it was to relieve some of the tightening in his chest. He tried to trust Angel, especially after Mary explained how Angel literally saved her life. How Angel was the one who allowed her to leave the life of an assassin.

"Keep up the terrible sense of humor, and maybe we just start only inviting Mary." Angel teased in a duplicate tone. Sherlock smirked at her comment. They still had zip on Moriarty, and they were a little scared of what he was planning. Especially after the fire at Angel’s flat.

“Three people, people I saved, people like Mary... All dead.” One would expect she said it with pain, or grief, but those emotions and the like were completely missing. She sounded like she always did... Nothing more than a machine.

“With those three people, Moriarty left a calling card.” Sherlock added, as they both continued watching the collage of photos as if they were moving. The watsons glanced at each other, John worried for Mary’s safety in general, Mary worried only about what kind of ‘calling card’ Moriarty would leave.

“What kind of ‘ _calling card_ ’?” Eventually Mary spoke, a great uncertainty enhanced in her tone. Angel pulled one of the photos off the bored, and began examining it with emotionless precision. The clear brand of of a widow spider, the skin charred black, the surrounding area suffering a similar fate from the struggle. The image flaked with ash, a thin line of red crimson surrounding it. The scene hadn’t been much better. She recognized the style of execution immediately. It was hers. Incapacitated with a gunshot so close to the temple it left a mark, but didn’t kill any of them. Instead, it served to knock them out, while they were forced to slit their own wrists.

“He branded each of their foreheads with the image of a spider,” Sherlock examined the photo from over her shoulder, their close proximity only getting smaller, “I assume it’d be because he is ‘The Spider’, but Angel keeps denying that clear fact.” Mary now moved, looking at the photo as she stood next to the pair. She brought her hand over her mouth, stifling her outcry only a bit.

“Because she’s right.” Mary choked out as tears began stinging her eyes. Angel didn’t react as John began doting on her, and as she stabbed the tack back through the photograph. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, moving them wildly as he tried to force the pieces to fit together.

“So, what does it mean then?” He asked, irritation not only evident in his voice, but the way his knuckles strained in their open position.

“It’s a widow.” Mary forced out, the inkling fear expanding, no, _radiating_ from her. The two men didn’t have a clue what that meant, but clearly Angel did.

“ _Mary_.” Angel hissed, the warning lost on the woman who had been succumbed by fear. Angel didn’t know how long she’d last, and if she did last past this ordeal, how long Mary would have before the agency was forced to terminate her, as well.

“And what, exactly, does that have anything to do with Moriarty?” John tried to figure it out, but clearly if Sherlock couldn’t, he couldn’t either. When Angel spoke up, all attention was thrown at her, shock mixed with a new layer of confusion at the admission of who she is.

“That’s what I am, well, was.” She gave no further explanation, but the clear reference was to her prior work, the work that confused and confounded Sherlock in a million ways. Every time he thought he had an idea, the rug was pulled under him. At first, he guessed assassin, but she wouldn’t need to be romantically attached to Moriarty to kill him. So then he wanted to say spy, but a spy wouldn’t kill their target. A form of intelligence, but then why help Mary? An intelligence agent would’ve either killed or double-crossed Mary, not help her form a new identity. None of his explanations ever made sense, and he had hundreds of them.

“And what would that be?” His head quirking in curiosity, his eyes narrowing on her as if willing the answer to fall from her ever so carelessly, given the situation, though, it did.

“Well, the ‘professional’ term, I suppose, is called a ‘widow’. Mine, to be specific, is the _black_ widow. If it hadn’t been, then he wouldn’t have charred the flesh.” She said nonchalantly. Widow? What was a widow, exactly? Widow was the proper term for a woman whose spouse had passed, but marrying someone would’ve resulted in some form of record, especially on Moriarty’s part. How was this possible?

“Um, elaborate, please?” John the ever-so ‘vital’ role of the idiot, as per his usual. The two women glanced at each other, half of the pair in plea, the other with a stoned glare.

“No, Mary.” She said with cold precision, attempting to soothe the woman’s desire to spill.

“They deserve to know!” She fought. Ah, Mary, ever so obstinate, Mary. Why must she always insist on being such an iron-willed person?!

“Mary, no. It is information even yourself shouldn’t kn-” She was cut off, by the completely curious detective.

“No, we can simply refuse to help you any further, should you refuse to give us such information. It is _my_ flat you are currently resi-” And he was cut off by a completely new sensation rising in his chest, coupled with the one felt on his lips as she silenced him with her own. John’s jaw didn’t “metaphorically” hit the floor, it literally did. He toppled over at the sight, while Mary knew what she was doing, and was quite peeved. Unknowing of what to do, he fell into the carefully laid trap that was the widow’s web. His eyes shut, further addicting him to the sweet sensation of her lips, the sweet taste of the simple gesture. Then suddenly, it was gone. He felt the cold replace the warmth of her...

“That,” She whispered from mere millimeters away, “Mr. Holmes, is what a Widow is.” She smirked at his helpless reaction, a few blinks showing all the confusion in the world. Soon he regained himself (only partially), and swallowed the want, no, the need, to feel the sensation again.

“Then what’s the difference when you add the ‘black’ to the ‘widow’?” He tried to sound clever, witty, but it came out as scrambled as he was.

“The difference? Guaranteed death.”

**~Moriarty’s POV~**

WHO THE HELL TRIED TO BURN DOWN HER FLAT!? _I_ am the one ruining her life! Not some wanna-be bad-guy forcing her to stay with Sherlock! _Oh, I bet they LOVE that._ Okay, we haven’t had an incident for three days! NOW WHAT!? _Check your monitors, dumbass._ I hate me sometimes. Calming down a bit, and lounging myself onto my desk chair, I type in the password to my laptop, pulling up Sherlock’s video feed. First thing I noticed was Sherlock sprawled out on that hideous sofa, doing his nicotine patches. Aw, my latest puzzle is a three-patch problem for him! How nice!

 _Not just him..._ What? _Couch, look, DOOFUS! THINK!_ Turning my focus back to the screen, I realize it isn’t just Sherlock on the couch. Entangled in his limbs as much as he’s entangled in hers, is Angel Sinder. Also with three nicotine patches stuck to her arm. The bloody hell- Angel doesn’t even smoke! _Maybe she’s just trying to impress Sherlock._ Oh please, Angel isn’t some garden-variety hormonal teenager, if he wasn’t impressed with her mind, than any other of her way-too-extensive skill-set should be more than enough. _Stop fighting with yourself, and WATCH!_ Turning my attention back to the once boring monitors, I realized the Watsons had arrived, looking as domestic as ever.

 **_Boring, so far._ ** I had to keep my focus there, and that was very near painful. Bland conversation overlapping itself, something about me (duh), and I could feel my boredom settling in. Then again, when she moved to their little collage board, and he followed, I am unafraid to admit I was more than a little shocked. Hell, I was watching more attentively than ever as they conversed further, finding how quickly she deduced my little message.

 _Black Widow?_  The hell did that even mean? Wait-wasn’t that the name of some superhero? Argh, who cares?! Luckily, even Sherlock had begun questioning this, and Mary (ugh) was insisting she answer. Something about her not supposed to know, blah, blah, blah, Angel kissed Sherlock-     _ANGEL KISSED SHERLOCK!?_ Woah, woah, woah, when did this happen?! _They were on that couch together, why are we surprised?_ Because this isn’t Angel’s style. This complicates things.This is bad. This is a diversion. This- this is... _You’re jealous._ No, I’m not. Surprised? Yes. Jealous? Not a chance. He can have that lying, manipulative-

“That, Mr. Holmes, is what a Widow is.” A small demonstration? That was all it was? Clever girls will be clever girls, I guess. Distract him from asking the questions, answer vaguely to keep him guessing. Damn her... He stumbled with his answer, most would. Then she answered with a calculating precision, cold, and vacant of any feeling.

“The difference? **_Guaranteed death_**.” _Yet, here I am._

 

**Author's Note:**

> @Traumfabrik thanks for beta reading!


End file.
